Insignificant Moments Treasured Memories
by DolbyDigital
Summary: There's a saying. I can't remember it word for word. Something about how we create our own joy. How it comes from our actions. I think that's true. But I also think joy can be found in the simple moments where no one's really doing anything, but where love and laughter spread through you in equal measures.


**A/N** \- Written for round four of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, as Beater One for the Wanderers. I had to portray happiness without actually using the word in the fic. I also had the optional word prompts Burst, Overwhelmed, Skip, and the quote 'Happiness is not something ready made. It comes from your own actions' – Dalai Lama.

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Nothing happened that made this day particularly special. This could have happened anytime. It was a simple moment, but no less meaningful for it.

I don't remember when exactly it happened, or how old I was. It was during the summer, I know that much. I was eight or nine at the time. Maybe ten.

We were driving down country roads, windows open to let fresh air into the stuffy, overheated car. I remember being surprised that we were the only vehicle on the road for miles – I suppose at that point I hadn't been out of London much. Not in the car, at least.

My dad laughed when I mentioned it. A carefree, honest sound; the kind where you don't notice it's been absent until you hear it at last. The kind of laugh where you couldn't help but join in, even if you weren't sure what was so funny.

I remember my mum turning to us, smiling widely at our obvious high spirits, the breeze blowing through her hair and the sun highlighting strands of gold and copper in her brown hair. I honestly cannot remember a time when she looked prettier than that late summer day.

She was reading, the book propped up against her bare legs, her feet always managing to find their way back to the dash no matter how many times Dad swatted them away – I don't remember what it was, or what it was about, but she'd occasionally read out a sentence or paragraph that she thought was interesting or funny, or anything that we might like.

I can remember the sound of her voice, though, as she spoke the words softly yet clearly, a slight smile turning up one corner of her mouth. It was comforting in the way that any familiar voice so often is.

We passed the hours playing eye-spy and the alphabet game. The excitement when a favourite song came on the radio and everyone in the car sang along, wide smiles spreading across our faces, spreading through the car. Laughing and singing and laughing louder when someone got the lyrics wrong – though, looking back, I think a lot of the time Dad had been doing it solely for our amusement – until we felt like we would burst with the feeling.

The sun moved through the sky, but I don't recall noticing the time passing.

We stopped for lunch in the middle of nowhere, eating a picnic Mum must have prepared before we'd gotten up that morning. Ham sandwiches and Pringles and juice. It's weird what sticks with you and what doesn't.

I imagine I must have argued with my brother at some point during the journey – we were kids stuck in a cramped space for hours on end; it's inevitable, really – but if we did, I don't remember it. Everything about that journey always seems so idyllic when I look back on it. Possibly one of the most vivid memories I have – the kind where not all the details are preserved, but the feelings that were invoked would stay with you forever.

I must have fallen asleep at some point during the drive – my brother, too – because there was a definite skip in time, the sun having set without my realising it and a blanket was spread across the backseat, covering me and my brother.

The car had stopped – I think that's what must have woken me – and I remember stretching and feeling all my muscles protesting at the movement, looking out the window and seeing only my reflection because all the lights were on inside the car.

I was safe and warm in the backseat, my brother still asleep beside me, feeling more tired than someone who'd just been napping had any right to. But I suppose that's the way of long car journeys – the longer they are, the more exhausted you get from doing absolutely nothing.

I just sat there quietly, listening to the murmured conversation my parents were having, not picking up any words but simply enjoying the tone of their voices and the quiet laughter shared between them.

My mum turned around when I was still in that stage half way between being awake and asleep, her smile somehow softening and brightening at the same time. I think she might have said something, but I either didn't hear or the memory faded in the years since that night.

The next thing I remember is my dad opening the car door on my side. He must have gotten another blanket from somewhere because I distinctly recall a flash of cold air as Mum picked up my brother before I was wrapped up in my dad's arms.

I was probably too old to be carried – certainly whilst awake – but in that moment I remember being overwhelmed with how loved I felt, how secure I was in my dad's arms. Like nothing could ever hurt me.

I don't know why the journey stuck with me more than the destination. We were going on holiday, I remember that much, but I can't remember where. There were a few places we'd stayed in a lot.

A lovely cottage in a small beach town; a bungalow in the middle of Cornwall; a small caravan that seemed to have more room in it than our house, whilst taking up a fraction of the space.

They all had fond memories attached to them, of course, but nothing that stood out above any other good memories that I have.

That car ride could have happened any time, any place. It wasn't special. It wasn't significant. But I have never felt closer to my family than I did in that moment.


End file.
